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Jackie Selebi, who once used to be the top cop in South Africa, has turned out to be a fucking crook. He received more than R200 000 from drug trafficker Glenn Agliotti, who in turn is on trial for the murder of another crook, Brett Kebble. It is the South African hybrid version of Days of Our Lives and Law & Order.

But that’s not the reason I’m shocked.

In other news Mr Nelson Mandela apparently had a daughter who died aged 63 before she ever met him in person. She was allegedly conceived when he got his rocks off a long time ago, as people are prone to do with the full support of evolutionary biology and Hugh Hefner. This was long before the obligatory love-glove days. And led to an eventful surprise for the Madiba family.

But this is not the reason I’m shell-shocked either. Come on, what the great old man did for fun in 1945 is none of my business, even if I did read the entire Mail & Guardian article and agreed that the woman had an uncanny resemblance to him.

I got a job.

Fuck, sorry, I hope you were sitting down when you read that. I know, right … who the hell would hire me? Especially as I’m known to rock up to interviews without my pants on.

Just not this time. I put my best foot forward. And I got hired. To write stuff . Just not stuff like you’re reading now. This blog is for charity (llama rescue and rehab, if you must know). I want to give something back to the world and sincerely believe you are a better person for reading it. This blog is about warm fuzzy feelings and happy endings (not those endings, you sick motherfuckers … happy endings like Panjo the tiger being reunited with his beast-loving owner, Goosey Gander Fernandes … happy endings like me finding my pants in time for my first day at work this week … happy endings like my pet llama winning the Sexy Ugly Teeth pageant third time in a row).

So I’m no longer the unemployed drunk dude. Now I’m the employed hungover dude.

But here’s the thing: I’m handling the early morning traffic. And I’m handling trying to stay awake at my desk and look like I’m working. But I fear for my life in that office. I’m surrounded by a new breed of lady bastards. I’m not sure if some of these chicks want to hold me down and give me a jolly rogering. Or if they want to smash a potplant over my head because I forgot a dirty coffee cup on my desk. And then give me a jolly rogering. The tension alone is keeping me on my toe nails and throwing jittery glances over my shoulder in case one of them has snuck up on me with a staple gun.

So if this is my last post, I’ve either run away with my llama over the weekend or have been Murdered By Staple Gun next week and my body dissolved in whatever chemical psychos use to eliminate the evidence. It’s been real.

Namaste, morons.

PS When I heard the pop of a wine bottle cork at 4pm on the dot on Friday, I was even more conflicted. Drinking at work. These are my kind of lady bastard people. But only time will tell if the booze will fuel their psychosis or lead to my own eventful surprise some day.

The Moron

Follow my unholy joyride at your own peril. Be warned, careless insults and gratuitous profanity buzz around these pages like flies about a dead llama. But you will also read unbelievably profound wisdom that will completely blow your mind and make you come back for more. Or shoot yourself. Your choice.

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